


(best laid plans) of mice and men

by roseandthorns28



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: (Blink And You'll Miss It) - Freeform, (one particular scene), Cat and Mouse, Dark-ish Eames, Eames Makes Questionable Fashion Choices, Hints of Arthur's Angsty Backstory, Humour, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mildly Implied Homophobia, Mind-Fuck, Pre-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 11:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14591769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseandthorns28/pseuds/roseandthorns28
Summary: "The best laid plans of Mice and Men often go awry." ~Robert BurnsArthur gets caught in the middle of a conman's ruse, his only task- to act as bait. Little does he know that things might not always be as they seem and appearances can be deceptive. By the time he realises he's in over his head, it's way too late.Featuring deceit, drama, daring chases, and dreams.





	(best laid plans) of mice and men

**Author's Note:**

> Written for i-reversebang, inspired by[ this ](https://imgur.com/9M0GENi) amazing art prompt by kedegree

Prologue

This is bullshit, Arthur thinks panting softly, back pressed against an upright coffin made from cheap plywood and black paint, fingers tight around a femur from a model skeleton.  
He doesn’t know how it got to this point where he’s hiding in the shadows, waiting for an ambush with a toy bone in his hand.  
He doesn’t know how it got here.  
He doesn’t know how _he_ got here.  
But he knows he needs to do whatever it takes to get out. And that despite the femur being the strongest bone in the body, the one in his hand is nothing but a poor replica. He’d like to have a real femur. Hopefully ripped from the asshole currently laughing at him, swanning into the room in his ridiculous get up- complete with a fucking _cape_. God.  
“Oh come on, darling. Tired already?” The voice calls out- sing-song, smug, and stupidly British.

This is such _bullshit_ , Arthur thinks once more with feeling before swinging his makeshift weapon at the approaching figure.  

 

Chapter One: The Agent

Arthur sits hunched in the uncomfortable metal chair, feeling eyes on him from beyond the two way mirror. After being accosted a little too roughly by the nondescript police officer as he was walking down the street, Arthur had been handcuffed and dumped unceremoniously into this grey-walled room.

The wooden door creaks open, pulling him from his disoriented jumble of thoughts as a blond man looking to be in his late thirties walks in, squinting at a file.

“You seem to be in a lot of trouble, Mr. Levine.” The file slides forward on the table, coming to a stop in front of him. It’s fallen open, spilling a glossy photograph of him, along with typed out official reports, words highlighted, laying out his crimes- alleged crimes- like a roadmap.

Arthur looks up to find the cool blue stare on him and keeps his mouth shut.

“Arthur, may I call you Arthur?” The spook continues, without waiting for a response, “We’re not here to make things worse for you.” He unbuttons his jacket and sits down. “I want to help you.” 

“Make things worse?” Arthur asks, stealing a glance to the mirror/window behind them. “I don’t- I don’t even know where I am.” 

And he doesn’t.

 

He didn’t have a lot of time to gauge his surroundings as he was being handcuffed and stuffed in the back of a police car. He can’t say for certain but he thinks the officer must've used excessive force since Arthur's first instinct upon seeing the two-bit cop had been to start gunning it. 

It’s a little bit hazy though, a little unclear as if looking through a soaped up mirror. He’s pretty sure he hit his head somehow cause he’s feeling pretty concussed.

“You’re in holding for now. But not for very long.” 

“I-I want a lawyer.”

“You haven’t been charged with anything yet. You could be. Besides, our agency is not governed by the same rules that local police departments are.”

“You’re not the cops?” 

“No. We operate under a very different jurisdiction. More specialised.” 

“Okay but who the fuck are you?” 

“Someone who can help you get out of this mess.”

“Mess- what? I don’t even know-” He’s cut off before he can start his indignant rant that he’s sure is building up behind his teeth. 

“Yes, I’m aware there are a lot of things you don’t know but that doesn’t matter. What matters is whether or not you want my help.”

 _Condescending asshole_ , Arthur thinks, glowering at the man. “What do you mean by that? Why would I want your help?”

“To make it all go away.” The agent says, closing the file with one fluid motion. The bastard must have practised in front of a mirror. Not going to lie, Arthur is a little bit impressed.

“We need your help regarding something. If you prove to us that you’re capable and willing to operate on the right side of the law, then once you’re done, we’ll help you by making this go away.” 

“What is it? What kind of underhanded shit are you getting me into?”

“Why would you assume it’s underhanded?”

“Cause you won’t just pick up someone off the street if it weren’t. Am I wrong?”

The agent sits back, eyebrows raised slightly, and Arthur can tell he might be a little impressed. Or that just might be him projecting.

“It’s not necessarily underhanded but you _do_ fit a profile. You won’t be required to do anything you won’t be able to handle.”

“What would I be required to do?”

“You’d be creating an opportunity for our team to intervene and extract the target.”

“.....in other words, I’d be bait.”

“Precisely.” 

“And if I do this for you, I’ll be free?” 

“Of course.” 

“How do I know you’ll keep your promise.”

“You’ll just have to trust me.”

“Fuck that. I don’t even know your name.”

“Well, if you’re not interested, I’m sure I can find another young criminal that fits your profile. People like you are a dime a dozen.” The agent says as he stands up and buttons his blazer, nonchalant in every movement.

Behind the sirens blaring in his brain, Arthur wishes that perhaps someday he too can pull off that ‘no-fucks-to-give’ attitude.

“Wait!” He calls out finally right before the agent’s hand touches the door knob. “I’ll do it. Whatever shady bullshit job you have, I’ll do it.” 

As the words leave his mouth, Arthur feels his stomach fall, a niggling idea that he had just made a deal with the devil.

_________

The agent doesn't give him much in terms of reconnaissance or whatever these shady government types call the act of doing your homework. When Arthur snarks back, asking for more info, he’s summarily shut down with a blithe, “We don’t trust you, Mr. Levine. You’re on a need to know basis and-”

“-and I don’t need to know.” Arthur sing-songs under his breath after the third such time. Possibly not quietly enough cause the agent shoots him an irritated look.

Somehow through all of that chit chat Arthur knows he needs to get the name of the agency, needs to get the fucking name of the guy he just sold his soul to. Mentally, he’s leaning towards CIA on account of how often he’s given the run around with nothing concrete to show for his questions.

The police officer from before comes in to give the agent some coffee, leaves without even offering some to Arthur. God, these people suck.  
He’s severely decaffeinated for this bullshit; add to that the persistent headache that’s only slowed down to a dull ache and Arthur is one unhappy camper.

At the end of the ‘debrief’ he is awarded with one panic button-

,-which is a fancy way of saying a remote GPS transmitter-

one wearable mic with a bodypack transmitter-

that weighs down his pocket affixed to his chest under his t-shirt with scratchy tape by-   
the asshole policeman from earlier with the arrest and the coffee and now, also with wandering hands   
,-Arthur hasn’t seen anyone being mic’d up but he’s sure nipples don’t play a part in the process

and seven pieces of information, which are as follows-

-One: There is some kind of drug called Somnacin that causes  
severe hallucinations of the things one fears.  
Two: Someone got their hands on a batch.  
Three: The drug is aerosol based.  
Four: The perp is making his way through the various county fairs across the country pretending  
to be a funhouse manager and uses the drug to swindle them out of their money.  
Five: He chooses a target and takes them to their home, robbing them blind while they  
recuperate in bed and thank the nice funhouse manager for tucking them in.  
Six: The people he chooses are young, brunet(te), baby-faced, upper-middle class and Arthur  
fits the profile three out of four. (He argues against the baby-faced thing until  
the agent busts out photographs and okay, they all look like him a little.)  
Seven: The agent is a fucking asshole.

 

Yeah. The sooner he’s out of here, the better. 

He’s driven to the local fair by the stone-faced agent where they've received word their perp has set up shop. Well, driven is an overstatement. Arthur is shoved in the back of a police cruiser and grilled on what he needs to do on the half an hour ride there.

He's reminded of his objective: Locate the machine that disperses the gas, or the least any tangible evidence then press the panic button and get the fuck out of there.

(The last part is added by Arthur, an exit strategy was never discussed with him.) 

He's also given a new jacket and a pair of expensive shoes to put on to better sell the lie of him being from money. Then, with another stern reminder to not fuck this up (and that they'll be listening in from nearby), Arthur is let loose on to ground zero and left to find his way to the perp's tent.

 

Chapter Two: The Funhouse

 

Arthur finds the tent, tucked away in a corner in spite of which it does a pretty desperate job of trying to be the centre of attraction.

It’s lit up in a million neon lights, the colours bright and clashing horribly. A big ass sign cheerfully proclaims it to be ‘FUN HOUSE’ (just that, nothing more) and there’s only one opening or door- which, _creepy_. With that and the bright as fuck ferris wheel in the background, Arthur feels almost blinded. This structure’s probably got more lights than the entire Vegas Strip combined and that’s saying something.

“Are you interested in a taste or just admiring the view?” Comes a voice from behind him, all smooth and low and…. Apparently British.  
  
Arthur turns around to come face to face with a paradox of a man.

By all rights he should be ugly as sin. He’s weary something so gaudy and over-the-top that surely it must be a parody. The ornate red jacket clashes with the _glittering_ cape that’s lined purple, with honest-to-god ruffles poking out from the cuffs and an equally frilly cravat with some kind of pin and seriously… a top hat?

So yeah, like he said, the man _should_ look like a fucking joke.

Instead, there’s something about him. Maybe it’s the way his plump, pink lips are curved into a smirk, maybe it’s the stubble or the way he fills out those anachronistic clothes- Arthur always has been a sucker for men who looked like they would be bad, bad news- or it maybe it’s the eyes, intense, playful, shining with all those fucking lights.

Whatever it is, the man manages to look _enticing_ instead of cartoonish. And… Arthur should probably get his head back in the game because he’s 90% sure this man’s the guy he’s been hired (indentured) to find.  

“I was just looking.” Arthur replies finally, glancing around him nonchalantly as if looking over to non-existent friends. People are passing by but nobody in particular is making any moves to approach the Funhouse, or showing any interest in them. Which, is weird. So goddamn weird. 

“You may continue to look if you want or,” he pauses dramatically, “you can take up an offer of a private tour of The Famous, Fantastic Funhouse,” the man finishes with a snake-oil salesman smile.

“Private tour?”

“Of course. As you can see, business is quiet slow. I’m afraid most everyone is queueing up for the ferris wheel. Not many takers for the Funhouse. Regardless of how Fantastic or Famous it might be.” 

Arthur can almost hear the capitals in the man’s speech. God, he’s… he’s good. If Arthur hadn’t known beforehand, he may have been taken in by him.

“Unless you’re afraid.” The man says before he can reply, raising a challenging eyebrow and Arthur wants to deny it but he feels a little swirl of arousal at the expression.

“How much?”

“Just a ten dollar fee, nothing too exorbitant. You can put it in the box as you pass it.” The keeper of the funhouse proclaims, throwing an arm out, his cloak swaying with the motion, causing a shimmer…. And are those leather pants?

He feels they might be justified though when the man turns with a dramatic swirl of his cloak and walks away, giving a glimpse of what that fabric had been hiding and yeah, Arthur can get behind the leather pants.

“Will you walk into the  Famous Fantastic Funhouse?” 

 _Says the spider to the fly_ , Arthur thinks unbidden and yeah, there’s a slight feeling of dread that he will need to soldier through.

It’s only for a little while, anyway. As soon as Arthur gets some proof of that stupid machine and/or drug, he’ll hit the panic button and stand back as the authorities come arrest the thief.  

   
There’s something to be said about how Arthur forgets one key thing. _Murphy’s fucking Law._

 

But at the moment, his head is filled with racing thoughts, half formed plans on how to remove himself from this situation as soon as he can.

 

Arthur hands tremble slightly as he follows the man and he shoves them in his pocket, his right fingering the panic button, careful not to press it accidentally.

 As they walk in one or two people pass them by walking towards the interior of the large tent but the manager pays them no mind, choosing to continue smirking at Arthur like some deranged peacock.

Arthur raises an eyebrow and drops his ten dollar fee in the gaudily decorated box.

“After you.” The man says, grasping a thick, purple curtain and pulling it aside.

As Arthur steps through, fingers still nervously playing with the panic button in his pocket, the curtain falls behind him, blocking out what little light there was, throwing him into darkness.

“Be not afraid, little one. Journey on to find what adventures are to be found in the Famous Fantastic Funhouse,” the manager’s voice booms, possibly from the speakers. The guy isn’t behind him like he expected.

Swallowing in apprehension, Arthur starts making his way forward. The only way out is through.

The first partition he stumbles across is a hallway of mirrors, lit up ominously by multi-coloured fairy lights, twisting his reflection into eerie shapes, things beyond the usual silliness that accompanies them. They’re almost unrecognisable as him and it causes a shiver to run up his spine. Trying not to look too hard at the alien reflections, Arthur tries to speed walk his way through to the next room, only to find himself face to face with a full length mirror, lit up in red. He looks like he’s bathed in blood.

He’s almost captivated by the reflection.

Shaking himself, he looks around for any indication of a way out and after a little bit of stumbling, he manages to squeeze between two mirrors angled at an acute angle and into what passes for the next room.

 

Shit. He needs to not get distracted so easily.

 

Arthur catches the retreating back of another patron and finds himself alone again. “So much for a private tour.” He mutters to himself as he makes his way forward. There are creepy fake animals and insects arranged around, looking scarily realistic. As he passes by a tarantula on top of a glass case, the fucking thing moves jerking up, legs raised as if to pounce. “Fuck!” He exclaims, stumbling back causing the snake behind him hiss and extend forward jerkily.

 

 _Motion sensors,_ he tells himself as he catches his breath and he can swear he hears laughter from somewhere. Well, looks like someone’s having fun.

He sure as hell isn’t.

 _Just find the drug and get out of here_ , he repeats inside his head.

Easier said than done. None of the rooms he’s seen so far have anything resembling vents, the floor is hard packed dirt, there’s a distinct absence of smoke machines. Nothing indicating anything about an aerosol based mechanism.

Still he makes the circuit of the room, trying his best to keep away from the creepy crawlies, all in vain.

This is going to be a long evening.

Two more rooms: one drenched in complete darkness with what feels like silly string brushing against his face and hands, the other an incredibly disgusting smorgasbord of jars of fake organs covered in thick films of dust and splatters of questionable liquids that makes Arthur want to throw up.  
  
Nothing concrete yet.

He could say that there’s nothing particularly interesting about this place, outside of how elaborate it is, if not for the way every step adds to the pit of dread in his stomach, making him more and more scared of things he objectively doesn’t fear. 

Something _is_ going on here and the sooner he finds it, the sooner he can leave.

He exits onto a hallway, wishing he had a flashlight, a phone, anything that would help him see a little better.

As he walks forward, he hears the susurration of voices; oddly there’s no music anywhere in this place. It’s only when his shoulders bump against a wall that he realises the hallway is getting narrower as he walks forward. 

Brilliant.

He makes half hearted attempts to look for anything that might necessitate the panic button as he slides sideways through, almost getting wedged at the end. It’s only with some determined wiggling and shoving that he falls against a door, panting.  
Fuck, he really hates this place.

He needs to get out. He wants to go outside. Out of here, out of this musty, elaborate prank, this stupid mission. He fears he’s already been dosed with the drug. He doesn’t know how, doesn’t know when but it’s the only explanation for how freaked out he feels.

He's nauseous and he wants a breather.

He needs to feel fresh air on his face.

 _It’s all fake. Get a grip._ He tells himself as he closes his hand gingerly over the knob and opens it only to get a facefull of icy, cold air.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

Two steps ahead, the landing of the door drops down into a sheer drop of nothingness. What. The. Fuck.

His heart is beating double time as he leans forward slashing a hand through the air in front of the door and yeah, that feels exactly like sticking his hand out of a window.

This… this should not be possible. There’s _nothing_ there. No ground, no path, just a void.

He stumbles back with another curse only to crash into someone and whips around. The manager is there, standing there shrouded in the shadows, posture relaxed in a way that shouldn’t be possible what with his _shoulders_.

Or rather it shouldn’t have been in the narrow hallway Arthur came from but behind the guy there’s a perfectly normal-sized space.    
  
“Wha- how?!” Arthur demands, looking back only to find the door behind him shut and the guy looking at him with eyes that shine with an eerie intensity in the low light.  
“A magician never reveals his secrets.” He purrs. And it sounds… dangerous in a way the man hadn’t before.  
“The- the door. It shouldn’t- we’re on ground level.”

The man glances behind him before turning back to Arthur with a raised eyebrow. “Smoke and mirrors. Don’t tell me you’re scared already?”

He’s being goaded. He knows he’s being goaded. The guy _wants_ Arthur to go through, to entangle himself deeper so that he can fall prey to the asshole’s machinations.  

“Shut up.” He bites out, pushing past him to go back into the now mundane hallway, only to be jerked back as the man hooks two fingers in the pocket of his jacket and snags him back.  
“Oh no, not there, Arthur. No backtracking allowed.” He says in a saccharine voice.  
“Fuck off, asshole. I’m done.” Arthur replies as he shoves the man back and takes off running down the hallway only to stumble back into the room where the man stands, raising a challenging eyebrow at him.

Of course. It’s a fucking maze. That’s why it’s so screwy.

Mentally, he starts trying to sketch a rough idea of how it must be designed so he can get his bearings.

 

“You look a little peaked, Arthur. Perhaps I should lead you back outside.” The man says obnoxiously as he starts walking closer. 

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Arthur replies, hand going to his pocket. Fuck the waiting nonsense, he’s getting out of here. His fingers fail to find the transmitter. The only thing in his pockets is the fake wallet bestowed upon him by the agent.

He starts moving back as he roots around more desperately before glancing up to find it between the man’s fingers.

“Looking for something?” He asks as he encloses it in his palm. There’s a loud snap of the plastic breaking in his _bare hand_ and the asshole drops the pieces to the ground. “Oops.”

Shit. Shit fuck goddamn it all to hell. _He knows_.

“What? Did you really not think I’d be onto your little game?” He continues, still advancing on Arthur and Arthur has no option but to lob the wallet at his face and gun it.

He ducks into the first corner he finds, tearing open the buttons of his shirt and yanking the mic out, transmitter pack swinging like a pendulum, to whisper furiously into the mic, telling the agent to get his ass here or else-

He cuts off when he hears footsteps.

Shit. What he needs is a weapon.

His desperate wish is granted by a cheap coffin and a lazily propped up plastic skeleton.  
Arthur replaces the useless microphone for a femur. 

 _This is such bullshit_ , Arthur thinks as he swings his makeshift weapon in the proximate direction of where he thinks the guy is and though it does connect to a meaty shoulder, it's wrenched from his hands and thrown to the side before he's tackled, back flat against the mirror behind him, a strong forearm barring his chest, trapping him.

Fuck.

“Naughty, naughty. Trying to hit me with my own creations?”  
Arthur can't do much but buck against the man and he bares his teeth in a snarl. “Get off me and let me go, you asshole.”  
“Will you stop trying to hurt me if I do?”  
“Yeah, just let me-” as soon the arm lets up slightly, Arthur swings at him and finds his wrists held captive in broad hands, pinned on either side of his head.  
“I admire your persistence.”  
“Admire my foot up your ass.” Arthur grits, lifting his leg to try to knee the man in his groin only to find it pushed away by the heel of a palm with enough force that it smarts and he loses his balance, having to overcorrect by widening his stance.

By the time he figures out that one of his wrists is free, the man moves again, sliding a thigh in the newly created space between Arthur's, both wrists held in a firm grip again this time raised above his head.

 “You _are_ fiesty. Lucky for you, I happen to like that.” The man whispers in his ear, his broad physique pressed against Arthur’s, pressing into him.

 And Arthur can feel how much he _likes_ that.

“Oh god, you pervert.” He retaliates, fighting a shiver; one that’s borne of a mix of fear and arousal because fuck if this guy isn’t exactly what Arthur likes.  
“Call me Eames. And I’m not the only pervert here.” He says, shifting and _shit-_ it’s just adrenaline, Arthur placates himself. Just adrenaline. Happens to everyone.  
“Fuck you.” He says instead, bucking up again and yeah, that was a bad call because _Jesus_ , the friction.  
“You’re giving me mixed signals, darling.” There’s a chuckle, a waft of warm air over his ear, tingles running down his spine. His body goes lax without his consent.

 Fuck the guy for finding one of Arthur’s few hair-triggers.

“Mm, see, that’s better. You’re much more attractive when you’re not foaming at the mouth.”  
There’s a nose skimming along his cheek and Arthur does the only thing he can and bites at the man’s- Eames’- bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. When he lets go, he’s given a bloody grin before suddenly the lips are on his and they slide wetly along Arthur’s, and Arthur can taste the rust-flavour of Eames’ blood, and his mouth is warm, and his tongue dangerous.

He doesn’t even realise he’s rutting his hips against Eames’ until a broad palm squeezes his ass, pulling his hips closer. One of his hands has wound up in Eames’ hair- he didn’t even realise his wrists were free- and suddenly there’s a bar of music cutting through the slick sounds of their kiss, and Eames looks up with a scowl. “No, too early.” He mutters, momentarily distracted.

Arthur shoves him back as hard as he can, coming to his senses.  
Eames looks at him with a sardonic expression, opens his mouth, his voice calling out his name but Arthur doesn’t stay to listen. He runs.

What the fuck was he doing? He should have been running out of here, not making out with the criminal who’s probably trying to rob and murder him. This man- Eames- is fucking dangerous. The real kind of dangerous, not the kind Arthur tends to pick up in clubs.

This is a bad time to think with his dick.

And, he realises with a sickening feeling, he never gave his name to Eames.

He is in so much trouble. It’s hard to think over the sound of his panic and shame and he needs to wrangle his thoughts into order if he wants to survive this.

 _It’s a maze_ , he thinks to himself. _Cut through it to find the exit_ . He adds, trying to drown out the rough, venomous voice that snakes in at the back of his head telling him _should have known you’d bend over for the first man that gives you attention stupid fucking fa-_

 _It’s a maze. Cut through it to find the exit._ He repeats.

Arthur finds himself back in the mirror maze.  
The mirrors are still freaky as fuck but now, as he’s looking around, there’s flashes of people in his peripheral vision- a red parka, a broad arm in a gingham shirt hunting rifle strapped on the shoulder, a walking stick and white hair in a bun.  
He turns and whips around, wanting to see more than just glimpses, trying to convince himself it’s only other patrons but he knows. He knows those identifying characteristics. Knows the weather beaten man, the stern old woman, the little blonde girl.

He’s close to hyperventilating now.

When his back hits another mirror, Arthur shouts in a mix of rage and fear, gripping the stupid thing and pushing it to the ground, the mirror shattering with a loud crash.

This must be it. The room where the gas is. _If he finds it, he can get out._

That becomes his mantra as he starts tearing down the mirrors, causing some kind of domino effect, the poles of the tent shivering, subtlety be damned.

He’s not ending up a victim tonight. Never again.

Uncaring of the shards flying, the glass crunching beneath his feet, the cuts on his palms, Arthur searches for the device, searches for an exit, pointedly avoiding looking in any of the damn broken mirrors.

 _An exit_ , he needs an exit. He doesn’t want to fall down the rabbit hole of memories, he’s trying to shove them all down back in his subconscious as deep as he can.

When he gets to the red-lit full length mirror, Arthur takes special delight in shattering it, ignoring the hollow eyed, dark haired boy he can see in the polished face of it.

Breathing heavily, he stands before the wooden frame that still holds a few shards still hang loosely but Arthur's attention is on what lays beyond it: a wooden staircase going down into what looks like a basement.  
He walks down as if in a trance, fingers automatically finding the string of the lightbulb and he yanks it, the yellow light washing over the dark room with stacks of boxes and wooden shelves.

Somewhere at the back of his mind there is a creeping sensation of déjà vu.

His breaths are coming too fast now and the wooden floorboards under his feet are trembling, the foundations of the house creaking but Arthur doesn’t pay it any mind. It’s an old house, it’s just settling, the contraction and expansion due to change of season.  
His feet take him to the first box and he opens it, the cardboard lid falling to the side as it overflows with pictures- polaroids, glossy 8x10s, fluttering to the floor with a soft susurrus like the hiss of a snake, snapshots of his life that shouldn’t exist.  
There were no cameras present when he was five and skinny dipping in a pond or nine and crying himself to sleep or twelve and cocking his first shotgun or icing his first bruise with a bag of peas or having his first kiss under the bleachers or graduating from high school.

His hands find another box and this one is filled with comics and toys he’s pretty sure he’d last seen years ago.

The shape of the room has shifted, he knows without actually looking around.

If he looks up, he knows he’ll be staring at the rusty pick-up truck that had been stood there longer than he’d been alive.  
If he looks to the left, he’s sure he’d see the boiler hissing away cheerily.

But he doesn’t look, _can’t_ look up from the piles and piles of his belongings, of his memories, of pages of writing he doesn’t remember putting to paper and glimpses of words tell him exactly why he hadn’t dared to.

The steps behind him creak ominously and a broad figure block out the light from the top of the staircase.  
Arthur turns with trembling hands, stumbling back as the house shakes on its foundations.

“Arthur, what is this place? What’re you doing here?” A soft, British voice asks.

Arthur keeps his mouth shut, frozen in panic.

“Arthur, it’s alri-” Arthur blinks and the man is gone.

The house is roaring now, cracks running up walls and along the floor, beams and planks falling in front of him.

There’s a moment of stillness where Arthur catches the strains of an old song before the house collapses onto itself, burying Arthur in darkness.

 

_________

 

There are voices…. Talking, no arguing… and Arthur’s head is woozy and his body non-responsive.

 

Shit.

 

What the _hell_.

 

His thoughts are muddy and he can barely find the energy to stay awake but he knows, somehow, he needs to-

“...let me go under…” A woman’s lilting voice. Musical.

“...risk you… the baby..”

 

A hushed argument punctuated by a slam that reverberates through Arthur’s head.

“...Mrs. Cobb..might be right.”

“..ur business. It was dangerous.” He knows that voice, that tight tension.

“...said this would be easy.”

“..never said that… every job has its risks...”

“Bet you didn’t anticipate for _this_.”

 

The voices are slightly rising, making it easier for him to understand. Or perhaps because the fog around his head is lifting slowly.

“If by this you mean-”

“Yes, I mean the barely-out-of-his-diapers mark who almost managed to…” He wants to protest to that- because he _isn’t_ a kid and also his name isn’t Mark…. Is it?- but even opening his mouth seems like a herculean task.

Maybe he should focus on opening his eyes. Get a good enough look to know what’s going on.

“To do _nothing_ , Mr. Eames.” That’s… the agent. That’s the agent’s voice. And the other…. It’s the Brit asshole- the one he was supposed to… to….

“Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?”

“Whatever. It’s time to move out.”

 

Shit. No. They’re leaving. He has to… he has to… god, opening his eyes, even into the tiny slits assaults his retina with light and his head falls to the side, the world spinning as he makes out two shadows- silhouettes- from the blurry vision.

God, this hurts. 

He must’ve let out a small groan because the two figures freeze.

“Stubborn blighter, isn’t he?” Eames- that’s Eames- asks, amused.

“Shut up and help me dose him.”

Suddenly, there is the feeling of hands on his shoulders and one of them is pushing up his sleeve and-

He wants to protest, to thrash out and fight them but all he manages to do is flop a hand to the side before there’s a pinch of a needle and the blackness rushes up to meet him. 

The last thing he hears before he falls back to the land on unconscious is a soft voice near his ear,  
“Go to sleep, darling.”

 

Chapter Three: The Chase

 

He comes to in a warehouse, lying supine under the dim light of a dusty bulb, swinging cheerfully on its chain. He’s dressed as he was, jeans, t-shirt, and a hoodie, groggy but unhurt.

That changes as soon as he rolls to his side and pushes himself up. His head hurts like a _motherfucker_. The nausea builds and he dry heaves a few times, nothing really coming out except for the feeling of bile rising in his chest. He spits out onto the ground and pushes himself upright, taking a moment or two to sit there under the paltry light of the bulb.  
There’s no one around. No hint of any other presence, no footfalls, no voices….

 _Voices-_ he remembers voices before he fai- no, before he was _drugged_.

Jesus.

What the fuck has he gotten himself into.

He closes his eyes for a moment, pushing down the nausea and only when he thinks he can stand without upheaving his stomach again does he make that attempt.

He’s unsteady on his feet but at least he’s up.

Taking in his surroundings, he notices the stacks of cardboard boxes to the sides, black tinted windows, a few ladders and such thrown to the side. Though messy, it’s all surprisingly clean, including the floor- except for the scuff marks that look like a remnant from dragging chairs or stools- metal legs, definitely- around.

The windows are tarped over but the door is unlocked, a sliver of light slipping in.

 

He's completely alone.

 

_________

 

It takes Arthur one year to get everything together.

It takes him one year, a suspension from the uni, all of his comp-sci knowledge, the gaining of questionable and illegal skills, forming (and working for) multiple contacts in shady walks of life, hours and hours of constant rigorous training, a startling amount of credit card fraud, the exhaustion of his encryption-decryption skills, and a laser focus to finally get everything together.

As soon as he could move without wanting to throw up, Arthur had sat down and written down everything single thing he could recall. Especially the names and descriptions.

He’s pretty sure they hadn’t intended him to wake during the argument but since he had, he now had names and a confirmation of involvement from a third member. 

When he had listed out all the information he could get- the names, the flyer for the psych research study he’d responded to that got him into this mess, the detailed recount of whatever he could parse out from the fuzzy dream state-, Arthur goes to work.  

 

At first, he doesn't find anything in police reports and/or incident reports about Cobb, the lady, or Eames. There are no reports of people waking up in places they shouldn't be, complaining of weird dreams and having their heads muddled with.

On some level it kind of makes sense; there's no way a two bit cop would ever believe something as fantastical as that. But even beyond that, there's no indication of anything like that on conspiracy theory sites or even forums and subreddits either.

The surface web and the hacking of any and all agencies Arthur can get away with hacking turn nothing up.

Whoever those fuckers are, they're clever.

He barely has anything to go on anyway beyond his own experience and the jumbled, hazy dreamlike images.  
But he does have two names to go on: Eames and Cobb.

  
There's another, not the Agent. Not a person. Something to do with the “mission” the Agent asshole had given him. Some drug. The name eludes him but it's the only piece of the puzzle he has. He needs to run a controlled search in more dangerous waters, some combination of “dreams”, “drugs”, “memory loss”, perhaps even “eames” is sure to lead to _some_ results.

They do.

Well, nothing concrete, no giant arrow, or x marks the spot, but there's whispers, a rudimentary forum managed by someone called Dread Pirate Roberts where one or two threads hint at a drug similar to the one Arthur is trying to track. There's no outright mention of the name. It's all very wink-wink, nudge-nudge.

For once Arthur wishes these people were more careless because this is honestly like sifting through a haystack for a piece of slightly different piece of hay.

It takes some unsavoury jobs for some unsavoury people before he gets a name.

 _Somnacin_.

After that, it’s only a matter of tracking down the right people to hear about whispers of a military project gone wrong.  
It leads nowhere in particular and Arthur doesn’t care too much to unravel that particular thread.

Arthur gets back to the drawing board and picks up another lead, the keywords he inputs having given him a series of research papers and he dives into them without hesitation, reading about Dr. Miles’ research on the integrity and intensity of lucid dreaming and the ideas of dream alteration or intervention.

It should sound like a pseudo science but even though they are just theories, they hold up in a theory-based peer review.

  
Dr. Miles has shit security and his email is a treasure chest.

Not only are there far too many specific inquiries from “interested graduate students” or made up researchers and blog post authors, there is also a family photo- a Christmas card type sentimental email from his daughter, Mal Cobb né Miles, a scholar in her own right.

She's a beautiful woman, managing to look elegant even with her belly swollen like a football. But it's not her that catches Arthur's eye. It's the man who had an arm wrapped around her waist, smiling a squinty smile, a little girl cuddled between him and her mother's belly.

Even though Arthur has never seen that expression in the man's face, he is easily recognisable.

Arthur's smile is all teeth. “Hello, Dominick Cobb.” He purrs. 

He decides to leave Cobb alone for the time being. He knows where the asshole lives, he has leverage. Even though he knows that his wife is most likely not a docile little housewife, and Arthur would never threaten kids, the man is still tied down, he has something to lose, and he's easily trackable.

Eames, on the other hand, isn’t. And Arthur is more interested in _that_ challenge. 

The man who calls himself Eames is nowhere to be found on any public avenues. He’s almost a ghost. Going by his accent, Arthur would have to base his search in the UK and Europe and even then there’s no guarantee he’ll find him.

 

He has nothing on the man.

Despite that, Arthur is more interested in trying to hunt him down. It’s not just that it’s a challenge. And, it’s not just that there was something about him, something dangerous that called to Arthur. He’d be lying if he said his attraction to Eames didn’t play a part in his near-obsession with the man; however small a part it may be.

It’s more about how towards the end (in the basement that Arthur tries his best not to think of) Eames had been almost… soft. Worried. And Arthur can still recall the broad hands on his shoulders, squeezing softly, almost reassuringly at the sting of the needle.

It’s about how he’d whispered in his ear as Arthur was losing consciousness.

 

And then there’s the matchbox.

 

When Arthur had stumbled back to his room, and slept off the chemical hangover, amongst his belongings he’d found a matchbox from a hotel in Phuket, a room number hastily scrawled on it with a ball-point pen, now half-faded.

It had been the only clue he’d had. More importantly, that had been the only thing that had stopped Arthur from losing his mind. The only indication that any of it had been real.

It had become somewhat of a talisman.

After wasting weeks on trying to track him down, he’s almost back to square one. Nothing concrete on the man except for the matchbox. The only option left to Arthur is to approach the only known associates of Mr. Eames: Cobb and his wife. Well, he’d been planning on going to visit them anyway so, two birds one stone.

 

Which is how a year after waking up in a dusty old warehouse, Arthur finds himself standing in front of a beautiful house in Santa Monica.

 

_________

 

Arthur knows it's a risk to simply walk up to the Cobb household and ring the bell. But, it's a risk he's willing to take.

He's been smart about it. He knows he looks nothing like he did a year ago when they last saw him- the perpetual overworked college student chic having been replaced by a fitted suit, slicked back hair; his body having gained muscle leaving him toned where he was gangly. 

Besides it's not like Cobb is expecting one of his marks from over a year ago to materialize on his doorstep. Still, he picks now to make contact, when he knows Mrs. Cobb is away with the two kids and the house is empty save Cobb. He's angry but even he won't ever stoop so low as to hurt children.

 

As he waits for the door to open, Arthur squares his shoulders, his gun tucked discreetly in the small of his back.

 

His first sight of Cobb after a year almost causes him to freeze. The man's straight out of his nightmares but he looks surprisingly human in his faded sweats and slippered feet; nothing like the monster Arthur had built up in his mind. 

“May I help you?" 

“I'm an associate of Mr. Eames’.” He says, smiling slightly. “May I come in? I have business to discuss.”

Cobb squints at him. “How did you find this place? I don't do business here.”

“Perhaps I can explain better inside. Unless you'd like your neighbours to stumble upon us. Or worse your children.”

Well, Arthur would never hurt kids but he has nothing against implying otherwise. 

The door opens a sliver to let him in and he turns bodily to keep Cobb in his line of sight, which allows him to block the first attack as soon as the door shuts.

He falls back on his training, moves coming almost instinctively, his sensei’s calm voice aiding him and five minutes later he has Cobb on his stomach on the floor, the man's gun kicked off to the side, his own pressed against the back of his head.

“Are you willing to talk now, Mr. Cobb?” He asks, slightly winded.

At the slight nod he receives, Arthur lets him go, keeping his gun trained on him. Cobb is now standing in front of him looking at him curiously, scrutinizing him as if Arthur was under a microscope. 

“What did you say your name was?”

“Call me Arthur.”

“Arthur….?” 

“Just Arthur.”

Cobb hums, dusting himself off. “So, did you track me down yourself or have I been sold out?" 

Arthur raises an eyebrow, a little thrown off by Cobb's easy calm. “Does it matter?”

“Yes. If Eames sent you here…”

“He didn't.” Arthur cuts in, not entirely sure why. It should be no skin off his back if Cobb goes after Eames, but one good turn deserves another. Plus, he wants to talk to the man himself. Whatever the reason, it’s too late thanks to his instinct to divert false blame from Eames. “I haven't seen him since I was drugged and abandoned in a warehouse.” He bites out, unable to keep the anger and bitterness out of his tone.

Cobb looks taken aback. “Mr. Levine?”

“Just. Arthur.” He grits out. “We have business.”

Cobb, despite having a gun trained on him from someone who he wronged, relaxes.

He's either underestimating Arthur wildly or he's too used to being at gunpoint. Or both.

“Yes, I'll say we do.” Cobb finally replies. “Would you like a drink? I prefer beer over wine personally, but we have both.”

“You're… offering me a drink?” Arthur says, gobsmacked but trying his best not to show it.

“Actually, I'm offering you a job. But a drink seems like a nice place to start.” He replies, moving slowly towards the kitchen.

Arthur's gun follows. 

“A job?” He replies dubiously. “Why would I want to work for the asshole who fucked my head six ways from Sunday?”

Cobb takes out two bottles of Stella from the fridge causing Arthur to adjust his stance, on guard. 

“Do you know exactly what happened in the warehouse?” He asks as he uncaps them both with a quick flick of his wrist.

“I know enough.”

“Is it enough though? Don't tell me you don't have questions. You're not the type to rest until you know everything there is to, are you?”

“And you're the one to give me answers? You got me into this mess.”

“No, Arthur. That was all you.” Cobb says pushing a green bottle towards Arthur.

“Me? I wasn’t the one who-”

“Yes, but do you know _why_ we did that?”

“That’s what I can’t figure out. Maybe you just like fucking with people.”

“Why would we do something so elaborate just for that? No, you’re smarter than this. _Think_ .”

“Don’t condescend me. I got to you all by myself.”

“Yes, based on fragmented information and dreams. Which is very commendable. But I can give you _more_. I can show you how it all works. Things you didn’t even know were possible.”

“And what, I let you live?” 

“No. You come work with me.”

Arthur let’s that offer rest in the air for a moment, looking at Cobb with a scrutinizing gaze. This is really not going the way he thought it would. But then again, it’s not like Arthur’s drowning in job prospects. And he _does_ want to know everything. It’s a very tempting offer but that doesn’t mean he has to decide right now.

“Okay, I'll bite.” Arthur says, clicking the safety back on and placing the gun on the table as he takes a seat, picking up the dewy bottle and presses it to his lips. “Say your piece and then I’ll decide if I’m interested.”

 

_________

 

Arthur leaves the Cobb household hours later, and drives almost on autopilot to his motel. His head is running overtime with everything he’d been told, with a promise for more to come.  
He’s a mess of contradictory feelings: anger, anticipation, relief, wonder, pride, satisfaction, irritation, curiosity, disgust, awe; and underneath all that a buzzing rush of _success._

He’d gotten everything he’d come for and maybe even what he’d _needed_ but hadn’t realised, despite his plans (and all contingencies) being thrown out of the window.

Cobb had helped Arthur fill in the blanks, especially with the why’s, how’s, and who’s of their operation. It infuriated Arthur how Cobb and his team had been running around getting into people’s heads simply to _see what happened._ He’d almost cocked his gun again.

 

> _“Now, that’s an oversimplification, Arthur. None of the subjects know what happens to them. They never even realise something was wrong.”_  
>  _“I did._ **_Everything_ ** _went wrong.”_  
>  _“Yes, which is why I said that you played a part in what happened. You started changing things, Arthur. We hadn’t seen anything like it before.”_  
>  _“Flattery won’t change the fact that you’ve been messing with people’s minds.”_  
>  _"Tell me. Are you more concerned about our methods or is it that, according to you, we messed with your mind?”_  
>  _Arthur had to concede him that point. It wasn’t so much righteousness that was driving him as a very personal feeling of being violated. “Fine. I’m angry because you cracked open my skull and took a swim through my subconscious.”  
>  __“Actually, you were very tightly locked. A lot of defences, very few useable fears.” Cobb’s tone wry and almost appreciative.  
>  __Arthur had sat back and relaxed at that. It was reassuring that his fears of being laid bare so obviously had been assuaged. It seemed that Eames hadn’t shared the basement of horrors with his team._

 

Yet another thing to talk to the elusive Mr. Eames about.

 

Arthur pulls out the matchbox, thumb running over the face of it. Thankfully, Cobb was amenable to providing him Eames’ last known address as soon as he got one.  
And now, with the force of his single-minded drive being quietened, he’d realised that he had very little resembling a plan as to what he would have done after had Cobb not offered him a job.

And this time, his dealings with Cobb _had not_ make him feel like he’d sold his soul to the devil.

It was simply good business. And now, despite the fact that he was subcontracted to a think tank that was so exemplary at covering up its tracks it didn’t even exist, and that he would soon be training and working with the very man who’d (from a certain point of view) destroyed his life, Arthur felt hopeful about his current position.

With that secure, it was time to move on to Eames.

 

_________

 

Despite Cobb’s lofty promises, his information essentially boiled down to ‘somewhere in South East Asia’ which is as useless as it is vague. He’s not stupid enough to trust Cobb completely so he’s been running his own search.

Now that he knows the kind of needle Eames is (extrapolated from Cobb’s tight-lipped vaguery), it’s easier to sort through the criminal haystack. A few enquiries about new identities, which again something Arthur actually does need, and he finds the guy who knows a guy who’s possibly Eames. Who is possibly in one of the provinces of Thailand. It’s circumstantial at best.

Arthur takes a chance.

 

After landing at the muggy Phuket International Airport, Arthur calls ahead to get the hotel to connect him to room 402. It’s kind of a long shot but then again he is tracking the kind of guy who leaves hotel room numbers scratched onto a matchbox in the pockets of his marks.  
He gives out a false name (not Cobb, it’s too risky, but an obviously fake one- he’s counting on Eames taking it as a potential client tracking him down) to the receptionist who connects him to the room's landline. A few rings out and there- the voice, _his_ voice is recognisable despite the generic greeting. The deep, slightly rough voice, accented the same, calling out a ‘Hello’. 

Arthur hangs up. He’s got confirmation. That’s the only reason his heart is racing. Anticipation. Obviously.

 

 

It's laughingly easy to break into Eames’ room. The man is usually put in the evenings trailing through the casinos in the area so Arthur has an adequate window of time to deposit himself inside. 

A quick perusal of the contents of the room later he is sitting in the armchair facing the door, gun resting on his knee, illuminated by the faint light from the street lamps outside. He lets himself relax, going through all permutations of potential reactions he might get.

When heavy footsteps stop in front of the door, the click of the magnetic lock echoing through the room, Arthur tenses, his attention narrowing on the door. His heart picks up pace and his stomach is queasy with anticipation.

“If you're here to steal something, you chose the wrong hotel room. However, if you need something stolen..” Eames calls out in his smug voice, easing the door open and stepping in, shrouded in shadow.

“Neither. I'm here for a conversation.” Arthur replies, flicking the safety on his gun, keeping it trained at the broad silhouette of the man.

“If you're going to point a gun at me, at least let me look at your face.” Eames proclaims flicking on the lights.

“Hello Mr. Eames.” Arthur says smirking slightly at the gobsmacked expression on the man's face.

“Arthur?!”

“I didn’t expect you to remember me.” He says, a little surprised himself by the quick recognition. Even Cobb had needed a few minutes and his first name.

“How could I forget?” Eames asks as he steps in further. “I must say I was expecting company but I never thought it might be you.”  

“Who were you expecting?”

“Well, you apparently.”

Arthur's confusion must show on his face because he then adds, “Next time you call an international criminal’s room, darling, don’t just hang up.”

“Should I ask them how their day has been, instead?”

“No, pretend you got the wrong room. Allays suspicion.” Eames says swanning into the room, his hand by his side, holding a gun loosely.

Like he suspected, Eames in real life is as ridiculously performative as he was in the dream. And dressed just as badly. Who in their right minds wears a paisley shirt? And the color. Jesus.

It’s like he’s trying to negate his attractiveness with his atrocious fashion sense.

“Thanks for the little lesson, Mr. International Criminal.” Arthur says instead of examining the thought that he still finds Eames annoyingly hot despite everything.

“I’m sensing sarcasm. I’m hurt. Whiskey?” The man asks placing the gun by the bar

 “What is it with you people and offering drinks to people who’re pissed at you?”

“It’s only polite.”

“You don’t care about polite, asshole.”

 “Back at that, are we? Tell me Arthur, I’m curious. Who are you including in ‘us people’?”

 “Dominick Cobb. He offered me a drink too.”

“You tracked him down?”

“Wasn’t easy. He never really told me his name.” Arthur says shooting Eames a pointed look.  

“Well, I didn’t really expect you to remember. I was just having a bit of fun.”  
Arthur can’t help but raise an eyebrow in incredulity. “This,” he says as he takes out the matchbox from his pocket and tosses it at Eames, “was for fun too?”

“Mm, I was wondering where that went.”  
Arthur doesn’t deign to reply. He knows that if he gives into his irritation he won’t get what he came for. Except he really doesn’t know what it is he wants. But he does know that it sure as shit isn’t getting the run around by Eames.

“There were a lot of reasons. Mostly, I just wanted to see what you’d do. You intrigued me.”

“I tracked you down.”

“Mm, yes you did. You’re a very clever boy.”

“Don’t condescend me.”

“It’s the truth. Even when we were under I knew that you weren’t like those other marks. There was nothing routine about you, or the job.”

“Because everything went to shit? Cause I started changing shit?”

“Not consciously but yes. Despite not being the dreamer, you had a very strong influence on aspects of the dream. Usually, only the architect can _really_ change the structure of the dreamscape. We were very confident of that.”

Arthur walks over to where Eames is leaning next to the minibar. He leaves his gun on the side table. They both know he’s not going to shoot Eames.

“But something went wrong. Some variable you didn’t control for.”

“Just one, Arthur. We didn’t account for you.”

Arthur turns his head to look at Eames for a moment. There’s this look on his face, something Arthur can’t figure out, that throws him. “You’re all very quick to lay the blame at my feet.”

“No, no blame. Let me rephrase. _I_ didn’t account for you, Arthur.”

 Eames is closer now. The look on his face is still there. “Did Cobb take you under?”

“What makes you think I’d want to go back?”

“To see what I can do. What _you_ can do. What we can build.”

“Are you offering me a job, Mr. Eames? Because Cobb beat you to it.” Arthur replies after a moment’s pause.

Eames scoffs. “No, I’m not in the habit of offering jobs.”  

“What are you in the habit of offering?”

“Many things. You only have to reach out, darling.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, covering up how thrown he is as he steps closer. “Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Eames?” He asks finally.

“Is it working?” There. There’s that smirk.

Arthur can’t help but react to it, his hands go to the collar of Eames’ hideous jacket, hooks a foot behind Eames’ ankle and grapples them both onto the floor, sitting astride him. He unsheathes his knife from his ankle, holding it to Eames’ neck as he looks down at him in one quick move.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now.’

“You didn’t kill Cobb.”

“It can be argued that he was more removed from the situation. You were the one who was in there with me.”

“Yes, I was. But it was never my intention to cause you harm.”  

Arthur raises an eyebrow.  
“Besides, if you wanted to you would have already, wouldn’t you?” Eames asks smugly.  
Arthur nicks him on the corner of his jaw.

“Oi, jesus. What was that for?”

“Just a warning.”

“Well received. I’ll shut up.”

“That’s a good idea.” Arthur says as he leans down to finally kiss him, pressing his lips against Eames’ plush, slightly parted mouth.

When they separate there’s a beat of silence, both of them looking at each other before Eames opens his mouth and breaks the moment. “I know I promised to keep my mouth shut but what was _that_ for?”

“Just checking.” He replies, licking his lips to chase the taste, his eyes fixed on the man lying supine beneath him.

“To see if..?” Eames prompts, looking a lot like someone just ran him over with an eighteen wheeler.

“If it was the same up here.”

“Is it?”

“Haven’t made up my mind yet.” Arthur says, leaning back down to cover the scant distance between their mouths, kissing him once more.

 

_________ 

 

Later, when they’re lying next to each other, naked bodies cooling under the fan that provides relief from the humid air, Arthur pipes up, “This doesn’t change anything, you know.”

“Didn’t think it would.”

“Good. You still owe me.”  

“What do you want from me? What can I offer you?”

“Show me what you can do in the dreams and we’ll call it even.”

**Author's Note:**

> con-crit welcome 
> 
> lemme know if I need to tag/edit anything re: the warnings
> 
> come say [hi](https://roe-sesandthorns.tumblr.com)


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